


No, This Is Stiles

by clotpolesonly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Banter, F/M, Fluff, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 10:30:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12274569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clotpolesonly/pseuds/clotpolesonly
Summary: The first call came from some dude named Chet. Stiles hadn’t even thought that was a real name people actually had. “Why the hell are you calling me?”“You’re not Laura,” the completely unhelpful guy said, which both ignored the question and answered it.“No, I most certainly am not,” Stiles agreed. “I am very relieved to say that you have a wrong number, my dude.”“This is the number she gave me!” Chet argued—argued,as if that would make the number right somehow—and Stiles hung up on him.





	No, This Is Stiles

**Author's Note:**

> for day 5 of Laura Hale Appreciation Week, Lovable Laura! in which _everybody_ loves (aka hits on) Laura and she turns them all away. until Stiles, of course ;)

The first call came from some dude named Chet. Stiles hadn’t even thought that was a real name people actually had.

Stiles’ phone started ringing halfway through his last class of the day, rattling obnoxious against the hard cover organic chemistry textbook. He let it ring through because this was the only class he really actually needed to pay attention in, but he pulled up the missed call as soon as the professor let them all go. No voicemail and the number didn’t look familiar, but Stiles was nothing if not curious so he called them back.

“Hey, baby. I knew you’d call back. Chet always gets a call back.”

Stiles pulled a face, halfway between baffled and offended. “Who are you calling ‘baby’?” he demanded. “And what kind of a name is Chet?”

“Who the hell are you?” Chet asked, his douchey confidence gone.

“I’m Stiles,” Stiles said. “Why the hell are you calling me?”

“You’re not Laura,” the completely unhelpful guy said, which both ignored the question and answered it.

“No, I most certainly am not,” Stiles agreed. “I am very relieved to say that you have a wrong number, my dude.”

“This is the number she gave me!” Chet argued— _argued,_  as if that would make the number right somehow—and Stiles hung up on him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The next call was from a guy named Bradley. It went something like this:

Stiles, a little muffled from the pen in his mouth — "Yo.”

Bradley, smooth and asshole-ish from presumably being an asshole — “Hey, pretty thing. How ‘bout we go for that drink tonight?”

Stiles, dropping his pen and also his jaw — “What?”

Bradley, clearly not listening at all — “Nine o’clock, you and me, a row of shots down at Sinema. How’s that sound?”

Stiles, having flashbacks to Chet — “Alright, as pretty a thing as I know I am, I’m also pretty damn sure you’re looking for someone else.”

Bradley, apparently an idiot — “This isn’t the hot chick from the bar? It’s Bradley.”

Stiles, definitely not Laura — “No, this is the hot guy who’s hanging up on you.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Over the next two weeks, Stiles got no fewer than eight calls from random people all looking for someone named Laura. And two from people looking for Brittany and Chelsea, who were both also described as the hot chick from the bar, so Stiles sort of got the impression they were all the same person just giving out fake names along with her fake number. 

Which just so happened to be Stiles’ number, goddamn it, and he was really getting tired of horny people calling it for someone else. He had half a mind to go to every bar in town looking for attractive women just so that he could find the right one and yell at her, which was not what he usually wanted to do with attractive women.

His responses got more and more rude as his patience ran out (not that he’d had a lot of patience to begin with).

To Luca: “Yo, dude, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but clearly you have no game. Next time, try hitting on less hot chicks who are less likely to give you fake numbers.”

To Greg: “Nope, no Laura here. Just little old me. I’d go for drinks with you, but Laura already turned you down and I’m inclined to trust her judgment on the matter, whoever she is.”

To Tank (wtf): “Ew, no, what the hell is wrong with you?? Fuck off, man.”

To Aaron: “Jeez, how many of you  _are_  there? This Laura chick is beating you guys off with sticks!”

To Parrish: —

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Wait,  _Parrish?_  Jordan, is that you?”

There was a supremely awkward silence on the other end of the line. Stiles had only answered the unknown number this time because it was late afternoon, he’d had nothing better to do, and he was feeling a little argumentative and up for shutting down some random loser looking for a lay. He had not been expecting the voice of one of his dad’s favorite deputies.

“...Stiles?”

Yeah, that was definitely Jordan Parrish, good cop and all-around nice guy who apparently was not good enough for whoever this Laura person was.

“Let me guess,” Stiles said, throwing his head over the back of his desk chair until his neck hurt and idly spinning around and around. “You met a pretty lady in a bar named Laura, or possibly Brittany or Chelsea, and chatted her up. You asked for her number and she gave you this one. Am I right?”

“How do you know that?” Parrish asked, sounding a little spooked and a little embarrassed at the same time.

“Because this is literally the thirteenth time I have heard that particular sob story in the last fortnight alone,” Stiles groaned. “I hate to break it to you, pal, but you have been given something of the run-around. I am apparently Beacon Hills’ very own official rejection hotline.”

“Oh.” That time he actually sounded pretty disappointed.

“Sorry, man,” Stiles said, with a little more sympathy. “At least you know you’re not an isolated incident. Apparently she turns away everyone. And sends them all straight to me, the bitch. What’s she look like anyway? I need a detailed sketch so I can throw darts at her the next time some douchebag tries to booty call me at 1am.”

“She was...” Parrish was a gentleman at heart, really, but even he only hesitated a minute before giving in. “...really hot.”

“Like, Lydia Martin levels of hot?” Stiles asked. He should’ve expected it, what with the sheer amount of dudes who asked for her number in the first place.

“Hotter. She’s kind of woman who could step on your throat and you’d probably thank her for it.”

Stiles whistled, long and low. “Wowza,” he said. “No wonder these guys are so pissed when they get lil ol’ me instead. No throat-stepping here.”

“She’s really giving the same wrong number out to everyone?” Jordan asked.

“Sure seems like it.”

Jordan made a thoughtful noise. “I suppose that makes sense,” he said. “If she’s had trouble with pushy guys before, it stands to reason she’d want to be prepared with something to get them off her back. It’s probably just a digit or two off of her real number, if I had to guess.”

“You really think so?” Stiles asked, raising an eyebrow at his ceiling.

“It’s not that uncommon,” Parrish told him, his cop voice on. “Women don’t want to say no outright for fear of inciting violence from the men they reject, but they don’t want to get caught in a lie either because that might piss the men off even more. So they have to have a ruse that’s easy for them to remember even when they’re nervous or afraid. Most women I know have some kind of set plan in place for that sort of situation, so they’re prepared ahead of time, and fake numbers feature prominently. I can’t blame her for it.”

Stiles could blame her a little bit, but only for having the audacity to accidentally use  _his_  number as her fake.

“So what you’re saying,” Stiles said slowly, “is that I could just try plugging a few slightly different digits into my number, actually get a hold of her, and give her a piece of my mind?”

“Stiles!” Parrish said. “She clearly  _doesn’t_  want people to call her!”

“Well, I gotta let her known  _somehow!_ ”Stiles cried. “Her scam is running up my phone bill! It’s either this or I start making the rounds of every bar in town looking for her, and somehow I don’t think you or my dad would approve of me doing it that way.”

“Considering you’re not legally allowed in most bars for another two months, no, we’d rather you didn’t do that,” Parrish said on a sigh. “Just...don’t be ass, if you do get a hold of her.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

It took Stiles 47 tries to find the right number. He started out by just changing the very last digit, working his way 0-9 and giving each one a call. He’d gotten a fast food joint, four answering machines who were not Laura, a number out of service, two apologetic men, and an old lady who thought he was her grandson calling from Florida.

Then he tried to changing the first digit instead. He got similar results.

He spent the entire evening meticulously trial-and-error-ing his way through various combinations until he finally hit the jackpot by bumping the next to last digit in his number up by two. Then —

“Hello?”

“Hey, I’m looking for a Laura?” he asked, dully and without much hope after three hours of getting no for an answer.

“This is Laura speaking.”

Stiles perked up immediately, almost dumping himself right out of his chair and onto the floor. “Is this the Laura who keeps giving a fake number out to every Tom, Dick, and Parrish in the tri-state area?”

“Wait, what?” she asked. “I mean, yeah, but how do you even know about—”

“Because it’s  _my number!_ ”

Stiles did knock over his chair this time, but only because he leapt out of it so quickly. He didn’t care though, too caught up in finally having found the appropriate outlet for all his irritation.

“It’s my fucking number you keep giving to these dudes!” he shouted. “Oh my  _god,_  do you have  _any_  idea how many late night booty calls I have been subjected to because of you? I’ve never been this popular in my life, and I’ve also never had a higher phone bill, thank you very fucking much.”

“I—”

“You know there are actual rejection hotlines, right?” Stiles went on, bulldozing over Laura’s attempted interjection. “Like, numbers set up specifically so that you can give them to guys in bars who won’t leave you alone so that you don’t have to use  _real numbers that belong to other people_. Like, ya know,  _me!_  For god’s sake, Chet actually called me  _back_  demanding I get him your real number.”

“Oh god, he did??”

“As if I even knew who you fucking were!” Stiles said, throwing his hands in the air. “That guy was a real tool and honestly, I can’t blame you for needing on out with that one, but seriously, thirteen times? Thirteen men blowing up my phone looking for that hot chick from the bar. Well, I don’t care how hot you are, Laura, because hotness means nothing in the face of the nightmare of doucheyness that has been the last two weeks of my life!”

Stiles finally ran out of steam, having said just about everything he felt the pressing urge to say to this faceless woman who caused him so much inconvenience. He just stood in his bedroom, panting a little bit from all the shouting, and waiting for her response.

She laughed. After a few seconds of silence like she was waiting to see if he would keep yelling, she burst out laughing. To Stiles’ dismay, it was a damn good laugh, one of those really full, exuberant ones that would always put a smile on your face against your will no matter how mad you’re trying to be.

“Um, excuse you,” Stiles said, trying to sound pissy, but it was proving really difficult.

“Sorry!” Laura said, still laughing. “Sorry, I’m just— This is the funniest thing that’s happened to me all year!”

“Wha—“ Stiles flopped back onto his bed since his chair was still overturned. “How dare you!” he said. “I am trying to be angry and here you are laughing at me!”

“I know, I know,” Laura said. “Shouldn’t be funny. But it’s still totally funny! Come on, isn’t it even a little bit funny?”

Stiles couldn’t fight the smile anymore because, damn it, it actually  _was_  pretty funny. Frustrating and inconvenient, but also amusing from an objective point of view.

“Man, fuck you,” he said though. “You’re not the one who had to listen to Tank’s fantasies. Those were downright disturbing.”

“Oh, I heard them too. Why do you think I gave him a fake?”

“He didn’t even bother with hellos first either!” Stiles told her. “Just straight into it! No time for cordial greetings here, it’s kinky fun time with Tank!”

Laura laughed again, sounding delighted at how horrified Stiles was. Stiles wished he could resent her for that, but he sort of thrived on schadenfreude himself so it’s not like he wouldn’t do the same if it were someone else.

“Oh, this is too good,” she said, and Stiles could just imagine her wiping tears out of her eyes. “This is the best day of my life.”

“Well, I’m glad one of us is enjoying this,” Stiles said. He kicked his feet up and settled his phone more securely between ear and shoulder, hands behind his head. “Since the other one is definitely traumatized for life.”

“My apologies, oh innocent victim of my dastardly scheme,” Laura said. He could practically hear the eye roll in her tone but, like, a friendly one instead of a rude one.

“How dare you have a good sense of humor when I’m trying to be mad at you,” Stiles griped. “I’ve built up two weeks’ worth of my wrath to bring down on you and you’re making it really hard.”

“My sincerest apologies for that too. I’ll try to be less funny in future. I’ll even cancel my stand-up comedy tour if that’ll help you comes to term with your trauma.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles said again, but with much less feeling. “Seriously though, how many times a night did you hand out that fake number? Were you literally beating them off with a stick?”

“You know, I did actually hit a guy with a baseball bat once,” Laura told him easily. “But no, the brush off is enough most of the time. And even the really persistent ones will usually let you go once they get your number. It makes them think they have a chance for later.”

“What about Parrish?” Stiles asked. “Or Jordan, whatever. Jordan Parrish. Tall guy, blond, dimples? I can’t imagine him as one of the persistent ones, but he ended up with my number too. Now  _that_  was less traumatizing and more awkward.”

“The cute deputy from last night?” Laura asked. “Mmm. No, he was a sweet one.”

“Why’d you blow him off then?”

“I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

Stiles snorted. “And sending him to someone else’s phone wouldn’t hurt his feelings?”

“Well, I was sort of hoping he would just assume he wrote it down wrong,” Laura said, to which Stiles made a judgmental sort of noise. “I’m weak, okay! I knew if I turned him down he’d have those big sad puppy eyes and I would cave and go out with him anyway even though I wasn’t really interested, and then he would get invested and I would have to dump him, and it would only hurt more in the long run! Really, this was the best way!”

“I think you’re probably the only woman I’ve ever know who’s  _not_  been interested in Parrish,” Stiles mused. “Hell,  _I’d_  probably date the guy. You must have hella high standards if even Parrish doesn’t do it for you.”

“I don’t know about standards,” Laura said with a sigh.

There was a rustling of fabric and Stiles thought maybe she was lying on her bed too. He abruptly remembered that every single man he’d talked to, Parrish included, had gone on and on about how attractive she was, and wasn’t  _that_  a thought: remarkably attractive woman, lying in bed,  _sighing._

Come to think of it, he probably shouldn’t think about that.

“I just...I don’t know,” Laura said idly. “I’d say I’m waiting for the right person, but that’s horribly cliche. I guess I’m just waiting for someone with the right spark, you know?

“Oh, and that’s  _not_ cliche?”

“Fuck off,” Laura said, and Stiles laughed. “I’m just saying. I don’t want obnoxious guys in bars who think I’m a hot piece of ass. I want someone real. Smart and funny and wonderful and all that jazz.”

“Probably won’t find him in a bar,” Stiles said by way of agreement. “At least, if we judge by the sampling we’ve had thus far. Very little wonderful to be had and a whole lot of creep.”

“I am sorry for that,” Laura finally said genuinely. “I guess I never thought about who would be on the other end of the line when I picked that number. I was put on the spot that first time, and then I just kept using it for convenience. Did I really run up your phone bill?”

“A bit, yeah,” Stiles admitted.

“Yikes. Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Stiles said, waving a dismissive hand that she couldn’t see. “This’ll be a fun story to tell the grandkids someday. Hey kiddies, wanna hear about that time your ol’ granddad got mistakenly booty called by Tank the kinkster?”

Laura snorted with laughter. “Oh yeah, that’ll be a great bedtime story.”

“Welcome to the real world, kiddos.”

“Really, though. Let me make it up to you,” Laura said. “It sounds like I put you through an ordeal these past few weeks. I owe you something, at least.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Stiles asked, intrigued.

“Maybe we could...get a drink sometime?”

“At a bar?” Stiles asked, partly to cover up his surprise and partly because his dad really wouldn’t approve. “Because I thought we’d been over what happens when you go to bars?”

“Or coffee,” Laura allowed. “We could get coffee or something. A few of those fancy Starbucks concoctions would probably pay off my phone bill debt, don’t you think?”

“And then some,” Stiles said. “Yeah, that sounds like a good time.”

“Cool,” Laura said. “I’ll save your number and give you a call.”

“Ditto.”

“Uh...” Laura laughed, low and a little embarrassed this time. “This is a bit awkward at this point in the conversation, but...what’s your name?”

“Stiles.”

“Okay, Stiles. It’s a date.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Laura was every bit as attractive as everyone had told Stiles, and her laugh was twice as infectious in person.


End file.
